he’d told them he was looking forward to writing real-life accounts of
a soldier’s life in Vietnam.
Jacob was never called up. Together they plunged into the heady days of the oncoming decade. But the Tolstoy factor would
remain with Jacob as a distrust of himself, a suspicion that whenever there was something he should do, something vital, he
would occupy himself with something else.
Of course he found her. As she came to know him she realised that he would have sent one of the boys to find out who she was
and where she lived and what her movements were. But as with most things that happened around Cy Fisher, she only saw the
results, not how he achieved them. Her little trick with her address was never mentioned. Incidents in which someone got the
better of Cy were rare and only meant that, sooner or later, without a word, he’d prove how futile such attempts were.
After the Leaving, she took a Christmas job at Boans, selling gloves and handbags. One day she looked up from the counter
and there he was. It was a shock to see him again in daylight, his black eyes and fish-belly white face, his solidity and
assurance. She felt her heart beating. Her first thought was that she hadn’t really got away after all.
‘How are you?’ he said, with a businesslike nod, and straight away asked to look at a leather shoulder bag, the classiest,
the most stylish, the one she yearned for. ‘I’ll take it,’ he said,handing it back. She was surprised to see her hands shaking a little as she wrapped it. ‘
Merci
,’ he said, as he gave her a cheque, and at last he smiled. He put the bag under his arm, nodded at her and walked away.
The name
Cy Fisher
was almost childishly clear in the big black writing on the cheque. Who was the bag for? she wondered.
He came back two days later, his usual span for the softening-up process. By then she’d had time to think about him. In fact,
in the same way that he’d loomed over the counter, he now loomed in her mind. She felt haunted by him from the moment she
woke in the morning, as if those black eyes had watched her while she slept.
Cy Fisher
,
Cy Fisher
, she muttered at the mirror, like a question to herself.
This time her heart lurched violently as soon as she caught sight of him, as just before closing time he threaded his way
through the Christmas crowd towards her. He stood out from everybody else, in his loose black suit, with his long, groomed
hair and the villainous five o’clock shadow darkening his cheeks. Hardly the answer to a mother’s prayer, or a schoolgirl’s
dream for that matter. But then she wasn’t a schoolgirl anymore. He asked her to have a drink with him after work and she
accepted.
Everything that happened around Cy Fisher was swift and simple. The Citroën was parked in a loading zone at the back of Boans.
He always parked wherever was closest to his mission. If a ticket found its way onto his windscreen, he crumpled it up and
threw it on the ground.
He took her to The Riviera, a nightclub in the old part of the city on the other side of the railway line, where girls from
her suburb never went. This is where migrants came when they first arrived in Perth, wave upon wave of them, setting up inthe little dark terrace houses and shops until they could afford to move out to a quarter-acre block in the suburbs and become
proper Australians. It was too early for The Riviera to be open for business but Cy knocked and was let in. He ushered her
inside and as they entered he put one hand on her shoulder. To protect her or claim possession?
It was a large bare room, naked-looking as a church hall at this time of the day. From small windows near the ceiling the
summer twilight fell in beams across the swept wooden floor. There was a bar near the door and a table of men playing cards.
As soon as the barman saw Cy Fisher he put down two glasses and a bottle. Cy pulled out a bar-stool for Toni before strolling
to the
a soldier’s life in Vietnam.
Jacob was never called up. Together they plunged into the heady days of the oncoming decade. But the Tolstoy factor would
remain with Jacob as a distrust of himself, a suspicion that whenever there was something he should do, something vital, he
would occupy himself with something else.
Of course he found her. As she came to know him she realised that he would have sent one of the boys to find out who she was
and where she lived and what her movements were. But as with most things that happened around Cy Fisher, she only saw the
results, not how he achieved them. Her little trick with her address was never mentioned. Incidents in which someone got the
better of Cy were rare and only meant that, sooner or later, without a word, he’d prove how futile such attempts were.
After the Leaving, she took a Christmas job at Boans, selling gloves and handbags. One day she looked up from the counter
and there he was. It was a shock to see him again in daylight, his black eyes and fish-belly white face, his solidity and
assurance. She felt her heart beating. Her first thought was that she hadn’t really got away after all.
‘How are you?’ he said, with a businesslike nod, and straight away asked to look at a leather shoulder bag, the classiest,
the most stylish, the one she yearned for. ‘I’ll take it,’ he said,handing it back. She was surprised to see her hands shaking a little as she wrapped it. ‘
Merci
,’ he said, as he gave her a cheque, and at last he smiled. He put the bag under his arm, nodded at her and walked away.
The name
Cy Fisher
was almost childishly clear in the big black writing on the cheque. Who was the bag for? she wondered.
He came back two days later, his usual span for the softening-up process. By then she’d had time to think about him. In fact,
in the same way that he’d loomed over the counter, he now loomed in her mind. She felt haunted by him from the moment she
woke in the morning, as if those black eyes had watched her while she slept.
Cy Fisher
,
Cy Fisher
, she muttered at the mirror, like a question to herself.
This time her heart lurched violently as soon as she caught sight of him, as just before closing time he threaded his way
through the Christmas crowd towards her. He stood out from everybody else, in his loose black suit, with his long, groomed
hair and the villainous five o’clock shadow darkening his cheeks. Hardly the answer to a mother’s prayer, or a schoolgirl’s
dream for that matter. But then she wasn’t a schoolgirl anymore. He asked her to have a drink with him after work and she
accepted.
Everything that happened around Cy Fisher was swift and simple. The Citroën was parked in a loading zone at the back of Boans.
He always parked wherever was closest to his mission. If a ticket found its way onto his windscreen, he crumpled it up and
threw it on the ground.
He took her to The Riviera, a nightclub in the old part of the city on the other side of the railway line, where girls from
her suburb never went. This is where migrants came when they first arrived in Perth, wave upon wave of them, setting up inthe little dark terrace houses and shops until they could afford to move out to a quarter-acre block in the suburbs and become
proper Australians. It was too early for The Riviera to be open for business but Cy knocked and was let in. He ushered her
inside and as they entered he put one hand on her shoulder. To protect her or claim possession?
It was a large bare room, naked-looking as a church hall at this time of the day. From small windows near the ceiling the
summer twilight fell in beams across the swept wooden floor. There was a bar near the door and a table of men playing cards.
As soon as the barman saw Cy Fisher he put down two glasses and a bottle. Cy pulled out a bar-stool for Toni before strolling
to the
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